Convent Tuesday, October 23, 2012

I have a real affinity for libraries. Fiction, non-fiction, children's, periodicals, you name it, I can get absorbed in any section for hours.

As a child, my best friend and I would ride our bikes to the library at least three times a week to take advantage of the books and the blessed air conditioning. We wouldn't speak for hours; she in one corner intent on the latest trials of the Black Stallion, and I in the other corner immersed in Nancy Drew, her closeted gay friend George and her speedy yellow roadster.

Oh, the epithets Hannah Gruen must have muttered under her breath as she prepared midnight snacks for the overprivileged white folks in the front room.

As an adult, I've been on the board at my local library for many years and have donated countless volunteer hours.

Heck, I even had my wedding reception in a library.














Everything about a library engages my senses in the best way. The sight of the books marching neatly down the stacks, and the sound of the silence, interrupted only by an occaisonal voice, laptop keypads, and the rustle of turning pages.

But, oh the best part is the smell of the books. Organic and musty with a slight hint of binder's glue. If they bottled it I would wear it every day.

Eau de Geek, by Lancome. Henry Kissinger could be the spokesmodel.

The library at All Saints Convent is one of my favorite libraries. Not large in its physical dimensions, but immense in the sense of contemplative anticipation it bestows on any who enter.

Don't be fooled- the library mainly contains religious texts, most dealing with Catholicism, but these books are not for the faint of heart. Some of them are pretty exciting.

Don't mess with monks on the warpath.




As in most libraries, guests are expected to be silent. However, unlike most libraries, the silence that cloaks this room is joined by a spiritual peace as well. On a rainy day, I never want to leave.

Water Wisdom

This past weekend I had the great pleasure of visiting with friends at a house on the bay in Chincoteague, VA. No husband, no kids, no dog, cat, guinea pig or bees. The friends I visited are lifelong, some dating back to Ms. Giles' 2nd grade class at Catonsville Elementary School. Might I say, none of us have physically changed one bit since high school, at least in my eyes. Unfortunately, some of us haven't had much mental development either.

Theresa and her husband Dan own the house in which I stayed, a home that is as gorgeous as it is welcoming.

It is possible, when the sun is setting, reaching brilliant fingers of light across the bay, to experience soul calming happiness in this place.

"Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough." Emily Dickinson

Normally my slightly cynical nature would find Emily's post a bit too full of cheese, but in this instance, girlfriend is right on.

I love spending time with these friends, although their ability to drink into the wee hours is often more than my liver is able to bear. This weekend they put up with my deficiencies with gracious hospitality, allowing me to escape as needed to my room, where I read my book by the light of a bedside lamp. Comforting sounds of the water outside and the drunken singing within lulled me to sleep. I dreamt of shorebirds and shots of tequila.

On Saturday we attended the famous Chincoteague Chili Chowder Festival, in which the toothless and toothful alike gather at the carnival grounds to witness a fierce chili and corn chowder battle between professionals and amateurs. Chincoteague oysters are also offered for sale. Perfectly salty and slimy.

Festival goers get to sample all of the offerings. The line that formed in front of the Road Kill Chili booth was long, a testament to the chili's award winning status. I found the taste of possum a bit too gamy for my liking.

People watching offered astounding opportunities, as the locals walking around were often spicier than the chili. Here's a picture of my friend Lisa with one of them:

 This gentleman's t-shirt read "I'm not a gynecologist...but I'll take a look". His hat identified him as a "Boob Inspector". He offered his services free to both Lisa and I. We declined.

The libations offered were not nearly as entertaining as the festival goers, but I thought the plastic taste of both the bottle and the cup offered a pleasing chemical addition to the palate.








After the festival we headed by boat to a small island near the mouth of the bay.

Theresa brought their dogs, who love to chase porpoises as much as they do cats. Max had to be restrained from jumping aft. He seemed to quiet down nicely once offered a cold cup of Viognier.















We were lucky to have the island to ourselves, except for a few defensive inhabitants.

We offered this guy a drink, but he had to decline. The absence of opposable thumbs made the Solo cup a bit too difficult to handle.

The day was breathtakingly beautiful. We sat under a cerulean October sky, with our toes in the sand and our spirits in the heavens.


My friend's little girl was busy, busy, busy, unaffected by the somnolence that overtook the rest of us as we sank into a bed of sand and sun.



Saturday evening I sat again by a window facing the bay, watching dusk dissolve sharp details, leaving behind a softened seascape that somehow seemed even more complete.

 "...But sound is never half so fair

As when that music turns to air

And the universe dies of excellence." 

Thomas Merton

LB turns 11

Last night LB invited 16 of her closest friends over for an EXTREMELY LOUD party to celebrate her 11th birthday. 

Seriously, air space around our house had to be cleared because of the sonic boom created by the screaming from this crew.









We surprised LB with a moon bounce for the evening. I watched the girls, without cessation, go from moon bounce, to bonfire, to dance party, to moon bounce, to dance party, to moon bounce... you get the picture.

The wax moustaches added a nice touch, I thought.

I hope the 5th grade boys are o.k. with dating hirsute chicks.

Eventually the party moved indoors for pizza and presents and EXTREMELY LOUD conversation.

The sugar in the soda caught up with LB- at one point she was standing on the table opening gifts.

So many presents, so many tchotchkes. Of course, LB immediately gravitated to the statement pieces.


A clown nose is always appropriate, in all situations.



The party lasted much longer than its scheduled 3 hours. The last straggler grabbed her goody bag and headed out the door near the end of hour five.

The whole evening left me feeling decidedly melancholy; the baby of the family is now 11, and time keeps marching forward.

Coach and I cleaned up the detris, not getting to bed until midnight or so. As LB aptly stated "This party was a rager."

A rager. As verified by the state of my face at the close of the evening:

Convent Tuesday October 16, 2012

It is a perfectly crisp Fall day, and there is nowhere I'd rather be than volunteering at All Saints Convent. The language of the breeze through the trees seems especially clear here at the convent, as though Nature finds it easier to communicate through these trees that live on this quiet, soulful property.

I can tell you from experience that the souls of the trees themselves speak to humans and animals alike in this special place. I often go outside during the day to have a little chat with a maple here, an oak tree there.

Linus loves it here.

Of course, his main form of communication with the trees is generally less oral and more urinal.





My job here is not strenuous to say the least, and I often spend lots of time gazing out the window, very happily.

Today I was visited by Sister Ann who had successfully renewed her drivers license after letting it lapse for a decade or so. We shared a lively conversation as she described the perils of the driving test, a topic I am extremely interested in as Oldest (my 16 yr old daughter) will be making an attempt at the same in November.
 Sister Ann learned that the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration (MVA) gives quarter to no man, and that includes nuns (click here if you'd like to read an Op/Ed piece I wrote on this subject). This test is hard, and includes a lot of real road driving on streets with narrow lanes and irate drivers. One almost thinks the MVA hires stunt pedestrians and road construction crews just to tighten the screws a bit.
It doesn't help when one has to peer around a wimple in order to change lanes.
But Sister Ann prevailed and is now a licensed driver in the state of Maryland.
She's considering changing her name to Sister A.J. Foyt. Probably not worth another visit to the MVA, though.

A Yogi I can Bear

There was once a time when my toes did not seem a lifetime away from my fingertips, a time when downward dog was not just something I yelled at Linus. Back in the day I was quite the yogi, attending class religiously once a week and practicing by myself once or twice more.

But then the trials and tribulations of my mid-forties hit, and yoga quietly slipped away. Physical aches and pains, and one scary couple of months where I thought I was dying, caused me to give up yoga, and once I felt better I never seemed to pick it back up.

This summer I developed a fairly hellacious case of sciatica in my right hip, caused by an uneven gait, caused by plantar fasciitis in my left foot, caused by a bad tennis game, caused by years of alcohol, pizza and dying brain cells.

The plantar fasciitis has seemed to resolve itself (although my mortification of having to suffer a summer of closed toe shoes meant for the aged shall never fade), but I am still left with a case of sciatica so bad it feels like my hip should scream like a dementor every time I rise.

Today I bit the bullet and revisited my old yoga class. As I expected, my teacher, Karina, took one look at me, guided me directly past the level 3's (my old namaste'in grounds), level 2's and even level 1's, and deposited me in the "Light Yoga and Meditation Class". The fact that I had to grunt as I unfolded my yoga mat in no way diminished my disdain for Karina.

Within minutes of the beginning of class my disdain for Karina turned to grateful love. Karina's voice as she led us through easy asanas that had me sweating profusely, was literally like a German-accented melody. Low and full, I forgave her everything, even the fact that my arms were shaking uncontrollably as I attempted to hold a low Cobra.

An hour of slow, mindful yoga, was followed by a half hour of meditation, wherein Karina completely convinced me my head was indeed in heaven while literal roots were coming out of my ass. I shook my head as I left the class, wondering how I ever let such joy slip away.

My walk home was just as enjoyable and I noticed a visible difference in the world around me. While I had noticed this as I walked to the yoga center:

I now noticed this:

and this:

and this:

Namaste.

Convent Tuesday Oct. 9, 2012

All Saints Sisters of the Poor Convent is located in one of the most beautiful areas of Catonsville, an oasis of woods and gardens tucked away at the end of a road and surrounded on all sides by state park land. Maintaining the grounds and buildings, not to mention the care of the nuns themselves, costs a very large amount of money. The sisters have cannily managed money gifted to them for the past 100 or so years.

In addition, the All Saints Sisters bring in pin money through the gift shop located on the convent grounds.










The gift shop works on an honor system. Purchases are made by dropping money in a small cash box and retrieving one's own change.

Seems like an open invitation for theft but actually works in the converse manner. Customers often tell me they ended up leaving more than they owe. This is such a statement about human nature- when trust, something most people are used to earning, is freely given, a person usually responds with gratitude. Of course, the occasional teen has wiped the sisters out. I'm hoping the lightening that repeatedly strikes them as they attempt to spend the money dissuades them from further crimes.



The gift shop's main item for sale is cards. For many years, the nuns calligraphied and illustrated the cards by hand.















These days, Sister Barbara Ann, the current resident artist, uses a pretty stellar computer program to come up with new card ideas. The drawings and calligraphy, however, are still her own, and she produces some of the sweetest cards you'll ever see.

Soccer, it ain't just for the Brits and the Brazilians

Nothing says Fall for my family like a weekend soccer tournment. This is a bit unfortunate for me as I am not particularly fond of the sport, being more of a lax fan myself.

This weekend I am wading through former farmland in Pennsylvania, present site of the prestigious Dillsburg Soccer Tournament, familiar only to those who have paid the money to be in it. My husband (Coach) is coaching my youngest, LB, and her team, the Catonsville Cobras, and is hoping for a screaming victory followed by celebratory Slurpees. LB is mainly focused on the Slurpees.

I square my shoulders and soldier forth, folding and unfolding my camp chair, as I follow our group of 10 year old Peles from field to field as they rack up a few ties and a loss.











                                                     There's a lot of equipment to schlep,

and sitting the sidelines is cold business. Meet my new best friend:

In between games the girls focus only on soccer, discussing strategy and player positions.

The afternoon games are fierce, and the girl meet their foes in new uniforms, hot pink shirts and socks that support breast cancer research.

Coach is a real man, thus not afraid to wear pink.

That man can rock a mismatched pair of pink soccer socks.



I may not love soccer, but I'm learning to appreciate this time with my family more and more, especially as the kids get older. I take a few minutes during a game to block out the sounds of screaming parents and focus on the privilege of watching healthy, happy children run with youthful enthusiasm under a cloudy October sky.

Notice I said learning to appreciate. Coach and LB are camping tonight with some of the other teammates. I plan to nobly support them through dinner before jumping in my car and heading home to heat and a working stove.

Decluttering my Mind

I have what may be the Mother of all junk drawers in my kitchen. Accordng to my husband the drawer contains 99% crap, and 1%, well, crap. 9 out of 10 of the pens pictured below are completely out of ink.

Items in this drawer are diverse. From tampons to fishing tackle, the Dunigan junk drawer has it all.

While my husband hates to open this drawer, I find great joy in it's contents. Each item alone might be relatively useless (ok, broken), but taken together, who knows?! The sky's the limit. Use enough ingenuity and the possibility of a nuclear bomb suddenly becomes a reality. I actually think there is a H+ atom or two lurking under the used tissues.

My mind is much like this drawer. Chock full of random items arranged in a haphazard fashion. But each day as I quiet my mind for even a few minutes, I find some of these items come together and form some pretty great ideas.

Today's idea is that I need to clean my junk drawer.

All Saints Sisters of the Poor

I volunteer once a week at a cloister; a Catholic Order of nuns who live in a quiet and imposing stone convent atop a hill on the edge of my town.
I'm here today, absorbing the silence in the hallways that is as thick as jam and just as delicious.


As one might expect, it's very easy to spend time in this place, where life moves forward linearly, without the sense of attention deficit I usually experience in my normal, scattered day to day craziness.

The All Saints Sisters of the Poor are a wonderful group of women. As a priory, they are part of the Catholic church but retain complete financial independence, and run the priory as they see fit. With 13 Sisters, 2 cats, a visiting Weimaraner  and a revolving door of guests, there is always something going on at the convent, and the Sisters carry it all with grace and dignity.

I often bring Linus (our dog) along with me, as most of the nuns are animal lovers and really enjoy seeing him. Things can get a little crazy when 2 or 3 Sisters, Linus, Gracie the Weimaraner and the cats are in a room together. The grace and dignity part I mentioned above goes out the window a bit when the Sisters are getting their party on.

This is one of my favorite places on earth and I always hate to leave. As for finding a time in my day to connect with my soul, it's a no brainer. Almost every moment of my day here reminds me that life is an internal journey.